Slim Dusty God's Own Singer Of Songs
Straight back chair and a table where he sits when he's
able
To walk over from that bed of misery.
To recall from his thoughts on a worn out tablecloth,
Where he'd been while his mind raced sleeplessly
Though his body's bent with age
You know he's still out on that stage,
Entertaining all his friends
That pause to greet him at the door,
Forty nine years out on the road,
Many a night he'd save a soul,
Now he sits and waits to claim his own reward.
God's own singer of songs is going home.
Though he's poor, he'd be the richest one you've known,
Oh his pain will set him free,
Wash his soul and cleanse him clean,
God's own singer of songs is going home.
Though he's poor, he'd be the richest one you've known,
Oh his pain will set him free,
Wash his soul and cleanse him clean,
God's own singer of songs is going home;
God's own singer of songs is going home.
